


Slow

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [1]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:56:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1796302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, the best solution he'd come up with was the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Relvetica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relvetica/gifts).



In the end, the best solution he'd come up with was the library. He hadn't wanted to ask, and had wanted even less to go through the effort of giving enough false information to acquire a library card, so he'd wandered the stacks until he'd come across the language section,then spent a good five minutes pacing back and forth, his head tilted right, scanning words printed on spines. He'd then proceeded to lock himself in one of the single-stall bathrooms. Staring at himself in the dingy mirror had been odd at first, but he'd gotten used to it soon enough. And God bless the failure of public infrastructure in the United States, nobody had ever knocked.

Even so, he didn't know how this was going to go over, or if two weeks of practice had been near enough. Still, like that thing Jergen was always going on about with the cat and the box, there was only one way to find out.

The diner was crowded as it ever was at the start of the lunch rush, and even though they had a sign up front about the whole party being there before getting seated, Wrench was holding court at a two-top with an empty chair. Two objects sat side-by-side on the placemat before him: at his left hand, a white diner mug of black coffee, and at his right, his notepad and pen. The top half was already filled with a couple lines of Wrench's careful cursive; even as he walked up, Numbers couldn't tell upside-down whether that was meant for him or left over from whatever conversation he'd had last.

Numbers took his seat, and Wrench pushed the pad over while staring at his coffee. Numbers didn't look at it, though; he folded his hands on the top of it, right over the left, and waited. The waitress came over with another cup and a #2 special (egg whites scrambled, turkey bacon extra crispy) without having to be asked, and Numbers thanked her but picked up neither his fork nor the pen. The Almighty had given him few gifts, but one was patience.

At last, Wrench glared up with a frown that sent a dart straight down between his eyebrows. He raised his hands, a clear 'what gives?'

Numbers took a deep breath and lifted his right hand. I-S-T-H-I-S-E-A-S-I-E-R.

Anyone else, he would've described the reaction as 'speechlessness'. Not a single muscle in Wrench's body moved, except for how his eyes grew wide enough Numbers could see white almost all the way around the irises. He wasn't even sure Wrench was breathing. Hell, he wasn't even sure he _himself_ was breathing. He'd probably fucked it up, knowing him. He had a knack.

Never content with putting only his foot in his mouth, though, he brought his hand up again and prepared to jam his whole leg in there. B-E-C-A-U-S-E-W-E-C-A-N-D-O-T-H-I-S-I-F-T-H-I-S-I-S-E-A-S-I-E-R-F-O-R-Y-O-U.

The more letters his hands made, the farther Wrench's jaw fell, until by the end his chin was damn near resting atop the placemat ad for some local insurance deal. He snapped his teeth and lips together with an audible click, barely blinking. Whatever was going on underneath that stony face of his, that was the only clue Numbers was going to get. Maybe he'd just insulted the guy's mother. He didn't even know if the guy _had_ a mother. With Numbers' luck, Wrench didn't have one _and_ she'd just been insulted.

But at last, Wrench picked up his hand and moved his fingers -- and oh, holy shit, holy _shit_ , this had been the part he'd _completely_ forgotten about. He'd been so focused on learning how to _make_ the letters that it had somehow slipped his ever-loving mind that he'd have to _read_ them too, for communication and everything.

He must've looked so baffled that Wrench sighed and repeated the sequence, letting Numbers nod after every letter to indicate he'd understood: S-L-O-W.

Holy shit, holy _double_ shit, it had fucking worked. His insane stupid ill-advised and all-around presumptuous idea had fucking _worked_. For certain values of worked, of course, this was _clearly_ still a work-in-progress, but holy shit, he hadn't even had a sip of his coffee and he was vibrating to beat the band. His heart was going double time. I-M-S-T-I-L-L-L-E-A-R-N-I-N-G, he answered, with only the briefest pause to make sure he wasn't confusing M and N. C-U-T-M-E-S-O-M-E-S-L-A-C-K. 

S-L-O-W, Wrench signed again, and Numbers was about to be insulted when Wrench held out one arm flat, palm facing down, and drew the fingers of his other hand up from the his fingertips to the back of his wrist. He repeated the gesture, then held up his hand: S-L-O-W.

Now it was Numbers' turn to be speechless for a moment -- though never for long; that just wasn't in his nature. "Slow," he said aloud, doing his best impression of Wrench's sign. He looked to Wrench and gave a hesitant thumbs-up.

A fissure formed in the stone wall that was Wrench's face, just enough to lift the corner of his mouth the slightest of increments -- but Numbers was watching, and he saw. Then Wrench pointed to Numbers and repeated the 'slow' sign.

" _I'm_ slow?" asked Numbers with a laugh, and when Wrench gave a smug nod, Numbers shot him an upraised middle finger, heedless of the brunching old ladies around them. "Fuck _you_ , buddy."

Wrench rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee, but even that couldn't hide how he was straight-up _smiling_ now. Numbers had been given the brief rundown on the guy, including his age, but believing in a ten-year gap between them had been all but impossible right up to that second. Now Numbers didn't know how he'd ever taken him for anywhere but lost in his twenties, in the same early years where you couldn't get by on being an angsty teenage dipshit anymore, but damned if you knew any better how to behave in public. Just a kid. A kid who needed someone to talk to, probably, and couldn't in the worst possible way.

Then Wrench brought all his fingers and thumb together on each hand, putting the right one on top before tapping their tips fingertips together twice, then switching positions and doing two more taps. Then he pointed across the table and spelled: N-U-M-B-E-R-S.

There was in that moment something sacred, like God coming down and telling Abraham he wasn't Abram anymore. The syndicate had its rules and quirks, and he was willing to play all the ball he needed to get by in it, down to the doofy idea of coded identities, but son of a bitch if not until that moment had it felt like his _name_. He raised his hands and echoed the gesture as best he could, learning the way it felt as well as looked. "That's me, huh?"

Wrench nodded, then pointed at himself. He extended the index finger of his right hand and put it in the crook between the second and third fingers of his left hand, then turned the latter. Oh, like a wrench. That one was a little more obvious. Like 'O' and 'W', and not 'N' or 'T'. Or 'Numbers', for that matter. 

With an inquisitive eyebrow raised, Numbers raised his hands and held them just right, then moved them until he'd made his partner's silent name. And the entire world seemed to stop and hold its breath until Wrench met his eyes and gave him a nod: yes, that was right, he'd gotten it right. His expression was carefully neutral, a practiced shield around anything approaching vulnerability, but every crack around its edges bled raw gratitude.

**Author's Note:**

> This used to be 'Fingers, Spelling' before I decided to be a little more uniform about my naming conventions.


End file.
